


Higher

by Loverboy (MythicObsessions)



Series: Midnight Sin [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Brief Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Crying, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, M/M, Mentions of medication, Soulbond AU, it's happy too, it's kind of angsty but yo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6928279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythicObsessions/pseuds/Loverboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He won't break down. He won't miss this chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Higher

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cuddlepunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlepunk/gifts).



> Unbeta'd pwp deguised as something with plot. Wrote on an ipod touch(3rd gen) notepad app.  
> My thumbs hurt, so does my pride.  
> Insomnia inspired. Forgive me, o' great father, fore I hath sinned.

The click is audible. Electricity being switched through from right to wrong channels.

Clock ticking seconds away in the empty room. Empty besides him.

But he doesn't fill any space at all.

"Listen to it." He mumbles, breath fogging out in a puff of white in front of him.

He focuses, forcing his attention. He zones in, the rushing of his blood, the shallow rise and fall of his chest at each intake of cold air. Farther he hears the flutter of his pulse against the hard wood of the floor, neck stretched out against the filthy grit of it. Farther then that might be the sore, sour screams of his cells as they crash and burn up, creating the unstable mess that he is. Except farther never comes, he just stays, silent and weary, as his veins connect his heavy heart to the rest of him.

His saving grace is that he can still hear it, shuddering, slapping against the surface of his skin. His flesh.

The world is violently still besides his thud thud lug of his heart and the near silent hum of a soul bond. It's not-voice whispering across his skin, promising late nights to come and a heart that beats in favor.

He won't break down. He won't miss this chance.

//

Despite common belief, Pete Wentz is anything but skin deep in his relationships. Wentz gets attached to people as easily as one gets attached to a new puppy, though he never did have a dog during his childhood.

Pete is a soul guy, deep if only someone is willing to dig and sure, sometimes that can make him come off as skin deep. Mostly because no one is ever willing to dig six feet under. No one's willing to dig

Up his skeletons.

And fuck if there are millions of them.

It's mostly tragic, and always completely horrible.

Pete thinks, but will never admit, that he may well be cursed. Cursed to this coffin of a body, with no one but his closeted undead to keep him uninteresting company.

Twenty three years of no one scratching the surface. Not even his mother or his father. His own siblings backed off from that ever hungry black hole.

The only validation to his life was the whispering is his spine. Well, not always his spine, though his soulmate was quite fond of that zapping they'll pull that always makes Pete squirm.

It's almost the same feeling as someone breathing down his neck, annoying at the worst of times but so fucking hot at the best.

He shifts in the bathwater, the lukewarm lavender scented water lapping over his stomach, making the bartskull he has low on his pelvis shine, and sending confused shivers through his bones.

He's never met his soulmate, knows nothing about them except the little sounds his mind converted to words.

A boy, young and only just hitting the blunt force of puberty. And that always made him cringe.

A fucking child.

It was hardest when he, his soulmate, hadn't been a hormonal wreck because then, every time he felt a zing of pleasure, of oversensitive flesh, he'd have to fight down the urge to touch himself. Because, sure, he was a bad sort but he wasn't that bad.

Now though, it was still endlessly bad and Pete felt tainted and disgusting every time the kid jacked himself because it felt like a peep show, feeling all that raw sexuality, burning at his morals like he were made of nothing more than paper.

Even as he sat, head arched back and throat bared to the ceiling, barely warm water running over his skin and crawling icy tendrils dripping down his chest, he felt his boy(at some point it became "my boy" or "my kid" for Pete) slowly, tediously work himself to the brink of insanity.

It'd been happening for a good hour, endless teasing without release. Probably home alone and testing himself, Pete had thought but gave in after only fifteen minutes and drew a bath. At least here, no one could see exactly how much he was getting off on the non-voice. That was bad, too. He was hard, aching, but never could he reach down and go at it like he wants because his kid, his soulmate, was pure, mostly innocent, jailbait. Soulmate or not, that was still a crime and it still felt so wrong.

Pete listens to the musical white noise of the bond, listens and ignores what he's hearing. This is the bad thing. This is the shadow that Pete lives in. A sixteen year old playing for the first time.

//

Patrick is... Weird. The moment Pete meets the kid he knows who he is. There's nothing wrong with him, as far as he can tell, he's just... Weird.

Pete is quick with placing the blame all on himself.

All those times he just couldn't help himself. All those times when he could feel the steady buzz of the bond as he pulled himself right off the edge.

Patrick is exactly what Pete didn't think he was into. And the first time they see each other, Pete's hair has an ugly red streak through it and Patrick is an odd mix of cool kid, trucker hat and a beautifully knowing smirk, and aristocratic brat, complete with bright orange argyle and knee length black shorts. His hair is a bright flare of reddish blond with unexpectedly adorable sideburns straight out of one of Pete's old war movies.

Joe doesn't even notice the way they stare at each other, Patrick's knowing, promising, grin and Pete's dumbfounded, wide eyed gawking. He pushes past Patrick, Pete's boy, into the house, shouting after to "hurry the fuck up, my mom is making tacos tonight."

They still stand there for a moment, thoughts running rampant.

Pete takes accounts of everything, freckle dusted cheeks, the bright galaxies in brighter sea green eyes, perfect full lips tugging into the perfect smile.

And then Joe is shouting "fucking tacos, man" like it explains his hurry, and, if you know Joe, it really does.

Patrick beckons him in and leads both Joe and Patrick down the hall to a small, but comfy, basement. Patrick gestures vaguely at a ratty couch and settles himself behind a drum kit.

While Patrick is good,  Pete makes lavishly sure Patrick knows this, they don't need a drummer.

"We have Hurley." Pete says apologetically, frowning at Patrick's disappointed look.

"What else can you do?" He asks it knowing the answer. Patrick isn't talented... He is talent.

"Uh." Patrick is turning a wonderful shade of pink, the color lighting up his pale cheeks. "I, uh... Guitar, piano, and I kind of write music?"

Joe looks uninterested, probably high on something.

"Do you sing?" Pete asks.

He's lived with Patrick in his head for years, he knows he's musical in every sense of the word.

Patrick shakes his head, hat falling over his eyes a bit and making him flick it up.

"I play instruments."

"I hear lots of people call a voice an instrument." Pete smiles. "Sing for me."

His heart rate picks up at the hint, barely there, of embarrassment that buzzes through the bond.

Patrick shakes his head again but when he opens his mouth(fucking perfect mouth), it's not to protest. A single note is all it takes to make Joe's head snap up and listen.

The song isn't one Pete knows. Something low, morbid but oddly beautiful. Oddly relatable even in Patrick's sweet, untouched voice.

I want to get stuck and be golden in your memory.

The last note ringing out, Pete physically stalling himself, Joe's unbelieving stare, Patrick's bright blush.

"You're in the band." Joe says, certain and strong.

"Uh." Patrick blinks.

"Yeah." Pete mumbles, a little shellshocked.

//

The pills are white, stainless. He wished they were something brighter, neon green or hot pink, something violent and easy to disregard.

They rolled in his palm, tapping each other and switching directions.

A cup held about a third of what it could, untouched on the sink. He'd put it down as a reminder, a “but you have to" sort of thing. Like his mother used to do.

Each dose was fear; new pit of rage, a new death. A seed of thought, seconds away from blossoming into something dangerous. Something that ends in empty parking lots and empty bottles and screaming sirens.

Please, he thinks; Mercy.

He swallows them down dry, the string of skin being pulled making him flinch.

The cup is still a third full, not even worth tipping, when Pete leaves the bathroom.

//

A pretty seventeen, his mouth shiny red and curved into a smile.

Not any old pretty boy, Pete thinks; Mine, mine, mine.

It's his birthday. Patrick's.

His mother, Patricia, has on a flower print dress and is constantly fiddling with her son's hair.

Patrick is bearing with it, probably because he feels guilty or something equally Patrick when his mother mentions his age.

Pete stays away from him during the party, makes small talk with all the family members he can bear without openly explaining, in great, unforgiving, detail what he wants to be doing to his boyfriend right then instead.

He's very sure David Stumph approves of his tact, if not for the way he nods slightly after an hour of useless, side eye glances at Patrick, and how he eventually drags Patricia off her son to go see something outside.

Pete sidles up to Patrick, draining the last of his grossly fruity, depressingly nonalcoholic drink.

"Hows my boy?" His arm around Patrick's waist, his nose buried in his hair.

Patrick groans in reply.

"Insufferable." Patrick mutters. "Completely insufferable, my mother."

Pete smiles. "You suffered pretty well from the looks of it."

"She treats me like a kid." Patrick whines.

"Well, you'll always be her titsy bitsy Tricky." Pete teases.

It earns him a glare.

//

"I'm seriously surprised your mother left us alone." Pete muses aloud, hand finding its way back to Patrick's head and knocking off the hat perched there.

Patrick makes a remorseful face at the lame no-name trucker cap as it tumbles of the bed.

Pete stares up at him from where his head is in Patrick's lap, stares straight up his (adorable) nose and knit eyebrows.

"I think you have dirt on my dad." Patrick shrugs. "He's been keeping her out of my hair for a week. It's weird."

"Nah." Pete fakes a hurt look.

Patrick smiles down at him and pulls absently on Pete's bangs.

Pete makes a face but smiles when the soul bond hums contentedly.

He feels like he won the lottery, this gentle song running through his veins. He feels like Patrick was some sort of prize, every two hundred sold. He felt undeserving and selfish for knowing he'd never give this up.

"You know..." Patrick starts, bond humming something familiar. Something burning and crashing over Pete like waves. "I'm seventeen."

Pete's lips curl into a slight smirk, he can feel it and Patrick's excited reaction.

"Legal." Patrick finished.

Pete just smiled.

//

The same three pills, the same blank white.

Sink filling up and draining mucky looking water.

Pete tosses his hand full into the sink and frowns as his meds disappear.

//

"I don't believe in God." Pete says airily.

His breath is a silent repeating pattern against his pillow.

Patrick looks up from the floor, a pen held loosely between his lips, forgotten, as he'd read over note after note of beautifully broken words. Paper surrounds him, creates ink stained wings, spread weakly out at his sides.

Pete doesn't have the desire, or maybe the will power, to look away as the pen drops and the echoing thud runs through his hollow veins.

"Tell me why, Pete." Patrick says, practiced ease forced into his voice.

"How can I when all I want is to be one?" Pete lets it drop, a rock in a lake, setting ripples through his body, his bones.

It's a bitter truth. One he never did try to ignore. Silent burn in his gut. A thirst for power or maybe just the attention it'd draw in.

"That's okay." Patrick says. In a way, Pete knows he's being careful. He can feel the worry he's hiding. The bond sending confused hesitation through his body. Tread carefully.

Pete wiggles around until his back is pressed tight to the bed, his eyes staring blankly up at the dull tan paint of the ceiling. A view he'd become familiar with in the last year.

The bond prods gently at his heart, sweet not-words in Patrick's sweet not-voice asking him to just let it out for him.

"I hate how much I need it." Pete says.

A silent humming question follows.

"Attention." Patrick knows that, Pete's told him before. "Worship."

"Don't you know you are?" Patrick's soft composer breaks and Pete's flooded with the emotions Patrick holds back so well. "Worshipped."

Disdain, disbelief and...Loyalty.

Pete shudders. Raw devotion.

Love.

His next breath is almost a sob.

"They love you." Patrick whispers, is off the floor now and has his chin hooked over the side of the bed, uncertain smile. "I love you."

Pete gasps and reaches for his soulmate, pulls him in and kisses him.

Desperate.

His senses narrow down, the brush of a tongue against his teeth, the pressure of a body covering his, the sound of two hearts tuning up. Patrick's low e, Pete's pitchy A, slowly colliding like a bad car crash, all silent and earth shattering.

His eyes are closed, his body on autopilot, grabbing at clothes and tugging until he's closer to Patrick's heat.

Patrick moves soundlessly, aside from his easy breathing and quiet words.

"Look up to you."

"Can't live without you."

"My savior."

Pete cries, his face pressed against Patrick's neck, his skin crawling.

"Fuck-" he breaks off.

The bond unfolds in him, flower blossoming and it takes a moment to figure out why.

The first time. As much as Pete's familiar with every inch of Patrick, in the year they've been together, they'd done everything they knew how to... Except this one thing. One thing Pete had drawn a line for. Built four walls to keep it at bay; A hungering lust for Patrick... For Patrick to take him, use him.

Now, his walls crack and he shudders, mouths at Patrick's jaw. He lets the walls fall, shatter, and crawls up the rumble, finds himself higher now, looking over the landscape of their bond, his eyes shut as the full weight and the weightlessness of it settle on his shoulders.

"I want you to-" Pete pants. "I want you."

Patrick breaks, his body falling to Pete's without ease and his mouth slides up from a collarbone to an ear, Pete moans as his soulmate bites down on his earlobe.

"Yeah?" It's a harsh whisper, nothing more than a breath, but the emotional overload that follows makes the simple nondescript word a shout into his heart, perfectly tuned to Patrick's.

It's easy to press himself closer and keen, whispering "yes, yes, yes" as he rolls his hips, or tried to.

Patrick moans lightly and then the weight is off Pete and Pete's hiccuping breaths were back, his chest aching, whether from withdrawal or emotion, he didn't know.

But it comes easier, breathing, when he blinks his eyes open and sees Patrick tugging his shirt over his head, soft  fingertips smudged with dried ink, and tosses it across the room.

Pete rolls his hips again and Patrick gets that too, starts undoing Pete's zip and tucking those fingers into the hem to pull them off.

Cold air hits Pete in a rush, his dick straining up against his stomach, and he squirms.

Touch me, he thinks and Patrick does, his hand wrapping around the base and the other pushing against the mattress, curling up over him again.

Pete feels weak, physically and mentally, there's no barrier between him and his thoughts, no filter.

"Never-" Pete breaks off to moan and wrath against the pressure, friction, friction, friction. "Never lived till I met you."    

Patrick's smiling faintly, lower lip pulled into his mouth, posture Pete relates with thinking, he watches.

What became of subtlety, he thinks numbly.

Patrick shifts over him, arm flailing out and Pete doesn't understand until he comes back, tiny bottle of lube clutched between his fingers.

Patrick came of it, he answers himself.

He shudders, moves against Patrick like a wave, heat rising like an active volcano, ready to blow.

Hands find their way into Patrick's hair, tangling and pulling.

The bond hums contentedly, excitement a quick buzz of background white noise, unimportant.

"C'mon" Patrick says, with that tone that means he's been saying it more than once, maybe more then twice and he pats Pete's knee.

The picture rises in Pete's mind, he lifts and hooks his leg around Patrick's waist, soft under his tensed flesh. Completely at ease.

Something is dancing low in his stomach, molten and wavering, and something, Patrick's fingers, brush down his cock and a thumb pressed up under his balls, teasing, until Patrick's pressing gently against him.

New buzzing, excitement loud but fear, worry, antipatiention growing anew.

Slippery, it's interesting. Cold but nothing bad and it almost feels good, Patrick pushing his finger in, a place he never even... Okay he had thought of this but fantasy was nothing in comparison.

Patrick is watching him, eyes wide and lust visible in the curve of his spine and the electric shock each of his touches give off.

Pete moans.

"More." Breathy.

Patrick obeys and pulls his single digit out, replacing it with two.

Careful, he thrusts in and bam, just like that Pete can't shut up again.

"Fuck, don't know how you do it." He moans out, grinding his ass on Patrick's fingers.

"Love you, need you. Fuck, always needed you. Ah-h fucking, always need you."

Patrick's grinning.

"Fuck me." Pete repeats, over and over. "Fuckmefuckmefuckme."

His soulmate mumbles and his fingers pull free, Pete wants to cry.

But then it's the sounds of slick skin, a blunt pressure against his entrance that's bigger than a finger, then two or, hell, even three, and it's hard, relentless as Patrick pushes in.

It hurts.

Pete doesn't care.

He grabs at Patrick blindly, pulls him down and buried his face in his neck as Patrick slides home.

It feels right, weirdly enough, to be so full. It's exactly what he's been missing, a puzzle piece that finally connects his heart to his body.

Patrick's shoulders, throat, and legs are tense where they're touching Pete, he's still and his breaths come in short gasps, holding back.

"Don't." Pete murmurs into his ear, licks a patch of skin on Patrick's neck after and Patrick gets it, the bond pulling taut.

Patrick moves. It's a barely there shift, his cock brushing something inside Pete and Pete shivers in delight, wraps his other leg around Patrick's midsection and pulls him closer, deeper.

"Don't be careful." Pete whispers, "I don't want careful."

Patrick nods and he moves again, pulls half way out and thrusts, gently, back in.

Pete arches and curls fingers in his hair.

"No." Pete says, louder. "Harder."

Patrick obeys, pulling all the way out and, goddamn, slamming his hips flush to Pete.

"You good?" Patrick asks.

Pete nearly screams, it's so good but he just moans and tugs Patrick's hair.

Patrick keeps it up, a sloppy rhythm falling in place as they move together, Pete meeting Patrick halfway at every thrust. The bond hums a loop of pleasure. mirror facing mirror, pleasure times a hundred. Times a thousand

"Ah-h, gonna-" Pete breaths and, untouched, comes over his and Patrick's stomachs, tightening up and moaning loud in the room.

"Shit, shit-" Patrick groans and follows after, how could he not?

Pete's overworked body gives a start as Patrick comes inside of him, bond sending his vision bright white and swimming.

It takes a moment for them to calm down, Patrick apologizing as he pulls out with a cringe.

Pete shivers and pets at Patrick's shoulder.

"I love you." He says sleepily, yawning and curling up, his cheeks dry and salt sticky.

Patrick disappears for a second, returns with a warm rag and a glass of water.

He pulls Pete up and forces him to drink the cup as Patrick rubs his stomach and chest down.

"I love you." he says again, blinking at Patrick.

"I know." Patrick says, smiles.

He leans in, taking the glass out of Pete's hand, and kisses Pete.  

"I love you too." He says when he's pulled away.

And Pete believes him as he settles back in bed, arm thrown over his soulmate's waist.

He is loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this sin. Comment your thoughts.  
> Fic requests @FallOutBouh on tumblr.com
> 
>  


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